


Premonitions

by Caryn_B



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Gen, Pre-Star Wars: A New Hope, future Luke Skywalker/Han Solo hints (if you squint)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 01:49:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9694481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caryn_B/pseuds/Caryn_B
Summary: With Biggs about to put in his application for the Academy, and Luke wondering about his own plans, someone claims to be able to offer Luke a glimpse of his life to come.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This has the _tiniest_ of Luke/Han hints for the future if you choose to read it that way. I'll just say that I chose to write it that way... A 30 minute time-limit challenge fic for the Luke_and_Han Yahoo Group, written in 2007.

Luke cast a surreptitious glance along the table, attempting to gauge his volatile Uncle's mood. Midday mealtimes were usually the best time to broach potentially explosive subjects, because they were when Uncle Owen was at his most relaxed. If he left it much later, tiredness would add an even more brittle edge to his Uncle's impatience.

"Biggs is gonna try out for the Academy this year," he said. He tried to make the comment seem as casual as possible, as though it was some trivial thing he'd just remembered.

Aunt Beru glanced up quickly, a flare of anxiety passing swiftly across her face. But Uncle Owen barely reacted, offering only a small grunt of acknowledgement, his eyes fixed determinedly on his food.

The grunt should've been all the warning Luke needed, but exasperation with his Uncle's obstinacy made him want to push the subject further.

"It'd be good if I could try out at the same time as him."

Uncle Owen's gaze still didn't leave his plate. "You're too young."

"There's hardly any age difference between me and Biggs," Luke protested.

Uncle Owen finally looked up, punctuating his reply with little stabs of his fork in the air. "The Darklighters can afford to let Biggs go. We don't have that luxury. You're needed here until things take a turn for the better."

"That could be years yet! Besides, you've always said you'd consider it when the time's right. And don't you think it'd be a good idea if I started out with someone I know? It's good for friends to stick together."

"Your family comes first, not your friends. You've got obligations here."

Luke gave a resigned shake of his head. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Blood's thicker than water and all that."

The remark produced an uncomfortable silence, during which his Aunt and Uncle exchanged a swift, strained look. 

Luke glanced between the two of them, slightly mortified by the possibility that he'd upset them. After all, he hadn't meant the phrase to have any ironic connotations. There might not be any actual blood tie between them, but they were still his family, and meant more to him than the few passing references he'd had to his father. But sometimes his irritation with Uncle Owen's lack of tolerance for his friends, and the time he spent with them, got the better of him. 

"Sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean anything by that."

Aunt Beru's smile held a silent appeal, the usual precursor to her regular attempts at calming the touchy atmosphere between Luke and his Uncle. 

"We know that. And we don't plan on holding you captive here forever either," she added, with a quick, warning frown directed at Uncle Owen. "But maybe now's not the right time to discuss this. Your Uncle's very worried about the harvest this year."

Luke nodded, letting the customary disappointment ride through him. Every conversation about the Academy ended this way, just as every harvest was a matter for concern. He'd be an old man before the time was right to discuss leaving. But experience told him pushing the issue now was unlikely to do him any favors. "I'll go clear up," he said instead, getting up from the table and taking his half-emptied plate with him.

"No Luke, you leave it," Aunt Beru said. "I want you to do me a small favor. Can you go into Anchorhead and get me some kriibiaseed paste from Sofiya Kyromanta's place? I need it to prepare the base for tomorrow's stew. You can combine the trip with collecting those Treadwell parts your Uncle ordered."

Luke looked at her in surprise. Visiting Anchorhead before the afternoon's work was finished was a rare treat, but not one his Uncle would have much time for. Judging by the exasperated sigh from the end of the table, Uncle Owen thought the idea was outlandish enough, but he made no other form of protest.

****

The winding alleys of Anchorhead were quiet, the mid-afternoon glare and heat having driven most sensible people indoors.

Luke left the speeder in the shade of a mudbrick wall, and set off for the herb grower's store. If he collected the paste for Aunt Beru as quickly as possible, it'd give him a little time to call in at Tosche Station. If Biggs was there, he might get to find out if his friend had put his Academy application in yet. 

The building looked dark and invitingly cool. Luke had to stoop beneath the low arched doorway to enter it. He'd never been inside it before, although he'd passed the place on numerous occasions, often sparing it a curious glance as he did so. Rumor had it that the proprietor had made the doorway deliberately awkward to discourage prying eyes, but now Luke had to wonder just what it was people weren't meant to see.

Inside was just an ordinary, empty room, lined on three sides with bare stone benches built against the rough-plastered walls. There was another low archway in the far wall. A strong aroma of mixed herbs and spices came from beyond it.

There was no one around. Luke cleared his throat as unobtrusively as possible, deciding it might not be worth his while coming across as impatient. Further rumors gave Sofiya Kyromanta a nasty temper, an acid tongue, and the ability to bestow unpleasant curses on those she took a dislike to. Apparently, Windy's Aunt had once come back from here with an outbreak of boils because she'd said something to upset the herb grower. 

Of course, Windy wasn't the most reliable of story-tellers. He'd once told Luke that his mother had been a famous dancer, but she'd decided to stop when the attention got too much. When Luke had mentioned that to Aunt Beru, his Aunt had needed to sit down, she'd laughed so hard. It turned out that the closest Windy's mother had come to being renowned for her dancing, was when she'd accidentally tripped her spouse up during their first wedding dance. Windy's father had spent his wedding night with both legs in splints. 

Still, even if Windy couldn't be trusted for accuracy, Luke had heard similar tales about the herb grower from others. And it didn't hurt to be cautious. But all his hopes of getting out of here quickly were going to disappear if he couldn't even get served. He cleared his throat again, a little more forcefully, and risked a quiet "Hello".

This time there was a reaction from the room beyond. A sort of shuffling, tapping noise that got progressively louder. The reason for the tapping soon became apparent, as Sofiya Kyromanta made laborious progress through the archway, leaning into her walking stick with every slow step. 

Luke had time enough to take in her appearance as she made her way towards him. Her age was somewhere between old and very old, and she had deeply wrinkled, leathery skin baked by the suns. The hand on her stick looked painfully gnarled, the tips of her fingers permanently stained from all manner of crushed roots, spices and herbs.

She gave a drawn-out groan of discomfort as she adjusted her crooked posture to peer up at Luke with surprisingly vivid, razor-sharp eyes.

"Luke Skywalker isn't it?" she croaked.

"Oh, yes," Luke admitted, a little hesitantly, unsure if her question was an accusation or a simple enquiry.

"Not scared of me are you boy?"

"Of course not."

His attempt at defiance earned him a sharp cackle of laughter. "Don't believe everything you hear. Especially from those airheaded friends of yours."

Her words had the immediate effect of relaxing Luke, and he gave her a quick grin, thinking that if he found a way to discover the truth about Windy's Aunt, he might at least end up with something to hold over his friend. 

"So what's your Aunt sent you to fetch?"

"Kriibiaseed paste. She says yours is the best in the area."

"Ah," she said, in an approving tone of voice. "Mine's the only one that uses rokkli-root extract. That's what makes it special. But it'll take me a little while to prepare."

Luke's heart sank at that, his hopes of reaching the power station retreating even further. Out of politeness, he tried not to let his dismay show.

"Come into the back," the old woman commanded, turning herself round with obvious effort and beginning her slow, hobbling return to the archway.

Luke wondered how she managed to keep the place going at all at that speed. He'd seen faster sandslugs. But then most of Anchorhead's inhabitants weren't going anywhere in a hurry. Including himself it seemed. 

The back room was more interesting, and Luke studied the array of implements with curiosity. As well as mortars, grinders and graters, there was a long, low oven, its top fitted with a metal plate on which sat several pans, their contents gently bubbling away.

Fresh, dried and semi-dried herbs and spices covered every other available surface. The scent was almost overpowering.

"Sit down. Help yourself to a glass of that." She indicated a tall earthenware jug full of a pale green liquid. "The glasses are on a shelf."

Luke cleared a small space on one of the benches and sat, sipping his drink, whilst Sofiya set about the process of preparing the kriibiaseed paste.

First, she collected a bunch of fresh kriibiaweed and emptied the spherical black seeds from the pods into a flat, heavy griddle. This went onto the oven's top plate, and then Sofiya began to stir the seeds slowly. Luke noticed how she held onto her stick with her other hand to keep herself from falling.

"Let me do that," he suggested, putting his drink down and reaching his hand out for the stirrer.

Sofiya scowled at him. "Trying to tell me I'm old and frail are you?" But the glimmer in her eyes belied her waspish tone, and she handed the wooden implement to Luke with only a token delay.

"Don't burn them, mind," she warned. "There's an art to roasting kriibia seeds. Too much and they go bitter. Too little and you don't release the fragrance."

She inched her way over to the table, lowered herself creakily onto a low chair and watched him. "Keep them moving or they'll catch. You'll know when they're ready."

Before long, the kriibia seeds began to give off a rich, toasted aroma that reminded Luke of meals Aunt Beru made for special occasions. They'd take her all afternoon – making the spicy pastes, chopping up herbs for cooling dips, and slow-roasting the vegetables. The scents from the kitchen always made their way out to the ridges where they'd find Luke hard at work, and he'd wonder what they were about to celebrate. 

Just as Luke was about to ask _how_ he was supposed to know when the seeds were ready, a potent vapor from the griddle rose up to catch the back of his throat. The cackling laughter of the elderly herb grower drowned out his coughing. Through streaming eyes, Luke negotiated his way to the table with the griddle pan, where Sofiya pushed a stone mortar towards him.

"Tip them in there," she ordered.

Luke sat down opposite her, and rubbed at his still-watering eyes. "I suppose you do that to everyone."

"Certainly not," she said, making it sound like a reprimand. She gave a small chuckle at Luke's indignation.

"Because nobody else ever offers to help," she confessed. She passed him a heavy stone grinder. "There you go. As finely as you can."

It was quite pleasant sitting there in her heavily-scented room, grinding the kriibia seeds and letting their pungent aroma waft across the table. Luke forgot all about wanting to get to the power station, and even put his Uncle's anticipated displeasure to the back of his mind. Because Uncle Owen wouldn't be happy over Luke's lengthy absence from work, even if the delay was completely out of his control.

"You do that very nicely, young Luke," Sofiya remarked. "If I didn't know better, I'd suggest you consider a career in herb production."

Luke looked up to find Sofiya watching him with wry amusement. "If you didn't know better about what?" he asked.

"I know nothing can match the excitement of going to the Academy. I expect that's what you really want to do."

Luke sighed. "Actually, I've probably got more chance of becoming Tatooine's foremost herb merchant than I've got of joining the Academy."

"You're very cynical for one so young."

"You don't know my uncle then. I'll still be here in ten years' time, fixing condensers and talking to Treadwells. It's not like there'll be anyone else to talk to. They'll all have left."

"Don't be so certain of things. Your future will be far from boring."

"Will you be telling me that in ten years' time too?"

"If I'm still around then, I doubt you'll have the same preoccupations," Sofiya said, her tone turning wistful. 

She gestured to the mortar. "Leave that now. It's ground finely enough. It needs to cool down and settle before I add the rest of the ingredients." 

She twisted round in her chair, her eyes traveling over the crammed surfaces and overloaded shelves. Finally, her gaze came to rest on a tall stone jar with a lid. She pointed to it. "Fetch me that jar."

Luke complied, placing the heavy jar in front of her. She opened it up, scooped out a handful of the contents and laid her hand out to show Luke. "What do you think this is?"

He stared it, puzzled. "Sand. There's a lot of it around."

She cackled again. "Well of course it's sand. But it's not any old sand. This is from the Burning Dunes."

"D'you mean the Tusken burial ground down by the Borderland Ridge?"

"A special place for the Tuskens. They won't go there at night. They believe the sand contains the voices of those who've died. They think it whispers to them in the dark."

Luke shrugged. "The sand shifts all the time, but it's more obvious at night. You can hear it moving if you listen carefully enough."

Sofiya pointed at him with a contorted finger. "You've spent too many nights sitting outside watching the stars."

Luke gave a half-hearted grin. "What else is there to do?"

She raised her eyebrows but didn't answer. "Pass me your hand," she said instead.

Luke looked bemused but did so anyway. She grabbed him by the wrist and turned his hand over, palm up.

"If you explain away the old legends, you take all the mystery out of life," she stated. "I believe this sand is special, if only because _they_ believe it. Maybe any sand would do, but it wouldn't feel the same."

"Do for what?" Luke asked, although by now he'd begun to realize that she had a tendency not to answer questions directly.

"Some people call me a witch. Other people call me evil. Your Uncle would just say I'm crazy. Now hold still." She spread the sand over Luke's open palm, covering it with a thin film. From a pile of utensils on the table, she extracted a long, pointed bone. Held it up to show Luke. "And this?"

Luke studied it for a moment. "Krayt dragon bone. Probably from a front limb."

She nodded, clearly pleased. "Very good. And I'm hoping you get the connection."

"Well... the Sandpeople think the krayts contain spirits, and their powers are transferred to their bones when they die. So both the sand and the dragon bones mean something special to the Sandpeople?"

"And when the two come together, they act in a very strange way. Watch." She trailed the point of the bone through the air, just above the layer of sand on Luke's palm. The sand shifted and swirled as if of its own volition.

Luke watched, fascinated, as the sand formed a complex web across his hand. "What's it doing?"

"Looking into your future."

"Oh come on! That sort of stuff's all rubbish. It must be something to do with the chemicals in the sand. They're reacting to the bone somehow."

"You're doing it again. Explaining away the magic." She put the dragon bone down. "But just creating the patterns isn't enough. You have to be able to read them."

Luke tried to suppress the skepticism in his voice. "And I suppose you can do that?" 

Sofiya's reply was to bend her head down low over Luke's palm, her eyes following the spirals and ripples of sand. She scrutinized the patterns in silence for well over a minute, a small frown developing between her brows.

"What's wrong?" Luke asked eventually. Even if it was a load of old banthawash, it'd be nice to hear something good.

Sofiya brushed the sand off his hand with marked gentleness. "Pass me your other hand instead."

Luke held out his left hand to her, glancing with some puzzlement at his rejected right one. "Why can't you do it with this one?"

"The sand hasn't fallen properly. It's not possible to read it." 

Sofiya's manner had turned a little evasive, and Luke had the distinct impression she'd decided not to tell him something. It produced a small ripple of sensation inside, a little like unease.

She repeated the procedure with the sand and the dragon bone on his other hand, and this time the sand formed much more defined patterns. Sofiya gave a small grunt of satisfaction. 

"Better," she muttered. "Much better." The dragon bone still clutched in her hand, she drew its point carefully across the sand ridges.

Watching her, Luke noticed how the patterns on his hand now remained unchanged. If a simple chemical reaction was at play, why had it mysteriously stopped working?

"This tells me a lot." She looked up at him. "Good things will happen to you." She leaned back in the manner of someone who'd said all there was to say.

Luke stared at her with disbelief. "Is that it? I thought you said it told you a lot?"

"You don't look the sort to want to hear all the usual things people ask me about. Romance. Marriage. How many vaporators they're going to own."

Luke shook his head. "I don't think any of that romance stuff will apply to me anyway. But it might've be interesting to hear a _bit_ more." 

"Don't think it'll apply to you eh?" she asked, an amused gleam in her eye. She leaned forward, and the bone dived down towards his palm again. "Nevertheless, something's there to be seen." 

"Oh. I suppose you're gonna tell me now that I'll meet a nice farmer's daughter, settle down and have lots of kids, who'll all grow up to be moisture farmers just like me."

"Oh no. There's nothing like that for you."

Luke gave another shrug, trying to seem off-hand about the fact that maybe she'd just denounced any hope of romance in his future, even if it would've implied he never got to leave Tatooine.

"If it's a nicely-ordered, safe and predictable future you want me to describe, I can't do that."

"Can't or won't?"

She tapped his wrist sharply with the dragon bone. "A fiery nature – that's what you've got. I meant you're in for a stormy ride. But it'll be worth all the trouble it's going to cause you." She grinned wickedly at him. "Lots of passion."

Luke gave a nervous laugh, conscious of the sudden flush of color on his face that he couldn't control. "So I do get to meet someone?"

"You're going to need a lot of patience. It'll come right for you in the end."

Luke resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. As fortune telling, it was about as vague and fuzzy as it was possible to get. Still, it served him right for letting her do it in the first place.

"Can you see if I get to go to the Academy? Do I get off Tatooine?" he asked. Because even false hope was better than no hope at all.

"Details are harder to see," she murmured, and there was a trace of reluctance in her voice. The dragon bone reappeared above his hand, and Sofiya peered at his palm in silence once more. She took her time, examining the tracery of sand slowly and thoroughly. As she did so, a new frown appeared, deeper and more pronounced than the previous one.

Finally, she looked back up at him, and Luke caught a flicker of disquiet in her eyes. She covered it well, adopting an off-hand tone of voice. "The patterns aren't clear enough. I can't tell you anything more."

Luke wasn't sure how, but somehow he knew, with absolute certainty, that she wasn't being honest with him. "I think you _can_ see something. You just don't want to tell me."

Sofiya gave Luke a swift appraising glance, and then shook her head. With one quick swipe of her hand, she cleaned his palm of sand, changing the subject just as abruptly. "The kriibia powder will have cooled enough by now. Time to add the rokkli-root."

Unaccountably disappointed, Luke pushed out of his chair. "I'll get it. Where is it?"

****

A short while later, the finished kriibiaseed paste was spooned into a clay jar. Sofiya sealed the lid and handed him the container in return for a small pile of coins.

"Tell your Aunt to use it sparingly. But she'll know that of course."

"Thanks." Luke made a few backward steps towards the front room. "Well, I'd better be off. Got some things to pick up for my Uncle."

Sofiya nodded, and Luke turned to go. Just as he was about to duck under the outer archway, she called out to him.

"Luke!"

He stilled, hearing her move slowly towards the inner doorway. 

"Remember, hold on to what you believe in," she said.

"Sure," he nodded, confused.

"And don't give up on him. Love is rarely straightforward."

"Give up on who?"

But Sofiya had shuffled away and once again, Luke received no reply to his question. 

He stooped under the doorway, flinching at the sudden wash of heat that hit him from the sun-baked street.

Walking towards the droid repair yards, he gave a small sigh, and told himself that the herb grower was just as crazy as everyone claimed she was. She'd obviously thought she'd seen something he wouldn't like in the stupid sand. Whatever it was, he'd be willing to bet it involved him being stuck here for most of his life. In ten years time, when he was still running errands for his Aunt and Uncle, he'd try to remember to ask her about it again. See if she found it any easier to explain.

As for all that love stuff... yet more meaningless drivel she probably spouted to everyone. And to top it all, he'd gone and forgotten to ask her about Windy's Aunt's boils.

The thought of Windy recalled his earlier determination to go to Tosche Station. He glanced at the position of the suns. Work would carry on at the farm for a good hour or two yet. If he hurried, he might still get some time up there. He could blame his late return on Aunt Beru's insistence on buying from the slowest – and the battiest – herb grower in the whole of Anchorhead. 

With this in mind, Luke quickened his step, the scruffy exterior of the droid yards now in view. His mind focusing on meeting his friends, Luke pushed aside thoughts of Sofiya Kyromanta and her strange tricks with sand and bones. It was all a lot of nonsense anyway.


End file.
